


The Two Rooms Problem

by JustNeededAUsername



Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Locked In, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: Sherlock and John have to solve a case before time runs out. They have to work together while depending on the each other more than ever.Inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face. Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed. Unlike the other stories in this series, this is not a one-shot, but it still works within the parameters of the series.
Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878043
Kudos: 3





	1. All the Time in the World

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be the next chapter of my multi-one-shot fic The Case File of Minor Tales, but the plot fitted better in a multiple chapters format and the amount of googling that went into it justified a fic of its own (at least in my opinion).
> 
> I imagine it being set somewhere between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three, but the timeline is a bit wobbly and not extremely important.
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. of course I do not own Sherlock. If I did, we would not be waiting this damn long for a fifth season!

Blackness.

Fog.

Swirling.

He couldn't seem to find his footing. Running without moving. Couldn't see anything but darkness and a veil of grey smoke swimming around in the ocean of nothingness.

He was still him, but he couldn't see himself, nor feel himself. Couldn't look down to see his body. Couldn't see his nose if he tried to focus on what his brain normally ignored right between his eyes. He tried catching on to something, but his arms had either left him or ignored the signals he was desperately sending them.

It was like being on drugs again, letting go of the tangible world, but without the indifference induced by the drugs he could not stop caring about where he was drifting off to. He was much too awake for a surreal experience like this, his brain too active, understanding and cataloguing how _wrong_ it was.

Then a sudden buzzing. _Oh good, his hearing was functioning_. He must still be somewhat corporal to be able to hear. But what was that buzzing?

And a drum. Why a drum? No, not a drum. _Think, damnit!_ Not drum. Steps. Quick. Running.

" _Sh-lck…_ "

"John?" His voice didn't sound out loud, was stuck in his head, yet it still sounded hoarse and breaking over the one syllable.

Suddenly there was a wind, blowing in the clothes that he still couldn't see but now he would clearly feel them swirling around his non-existing body. His coat floating around him, his trousers pulling slightly around his legs and his hair dancing around his neck and face.

Then a chill crawled down his spine, as realisation shook his core; _The Fall_.

This was how it had felt; The wind flowing around him the second he brought himself out of balance and tipped over the edge. That one second, where he felt like flowing, but wanted more than anything to grab onto the edge of the building and climb back up. But couldn't. Shouldn't.

Weightless, but heavy with thoughts, calculations and… _feelings_. And the last thing he had heard –

" _Sherlock!"_

Sherlock threw his eyes open, feeling his body spasm by the brute awakening. He was not falling. There was no wind. And the voice had only been a cruel echo from the subconsciousness.

Before he could give it any conscious thought, his senses kicked in, starting instinctively to gather data;

> _Eyes; Darkness, but not pitch black as before._
> 
> _Nose; His own body odour. Distress evident._
> 
> _Mouth; Dry and stale, as after sleep._
> 
> _Ears; Erratic breathing. His own. Normal after nightmare._
> 
> _Skin; Hard, cold surface underneath. Soreness._

He added more input to this data by turning his head, starting to look around while feeling the effect that the movement had on his body. The sensory input was slowly put into context;

> _Walls dark grey, most likely concrete._
> 
> _Small stream of LED light around the ceiling, seemed turned down to the minimal light needed to orientate in the room._
> 
> _Small room._
> 
> _One door, almost one with the wall. No lock, only opening from the outside._

_How inconvenient_. Very much a prison cell.

_Body; Sore, most likely from being transported to this place and dropped not too kindly on the floor._

He allowed himself a moment to get his breathing under control. It had been a while since he had had a nightmare like that, the panic still lingering in his system after the dream.

But something was different, wrong. There had been running. John had run out of the cab, but Sherlock couldn't hear that from the rooftop. He could imagine it, surely, but he never had before. So why now?

Because he had heard running. Before. And John had called his name, again.

_Rewind; Where had he been before_ _here_ _?_

They had had a case. Victims turned up asphyxiated but without any visible injury to their bodies. They had traces of a sedative in their systems, but nothing lethal. The victims had nothing in common despite being experts within different fields; Economy, geology and engineering. They had been re-tracing the steps of the latest victim in a multi storey car park. John had stepped away for a moment to take a call from the clinic.

Sherlock remembered a stinging sensation to his neck and instinctively clasped a hand over the spot. The gesture would not do any good at this point, but it triggered a new line of thought during his internal recounting of the events; ' _They'_ …

Before darkness had claimed him, John had run towards him, calling his name. Angry and worried, eyes shifting between Sherlock and something – _someone_ – behind Sherlock.

John.

Where was John?

Sherlock quickly sat up, ignoring the quick spin his head took at the sudden movement. He looked desperately around the room, despite already being certain that he was alone. The room was not big enough for him to overlook something as important as a second presence in the room.

When reassured that he truly was alone – _well, not exactly reassured, because if John was not here, then where was he?_ – he noticed that his coat was missing. He quickly ran his hands over his shirt and suit pants, concluding that his phone was missing. _Of course_. Any belongings he had had on him was missing.

Instead he found a small envelope in the back pocket of his pants. It had not been there before. As this was his only clue, for now, he turned the paper in his hands, trying to analyse as much as possible in the sparse light; _Thick, rich paper. Strong, stiff. German._

There was a simple addressing on the front; '411'.

 _Written on a typewriter; 1938 Underwood Champion. Classic_. _So, a criminal with a bit of style for once_.

_411; American and Canadian slang for 'information', 'gossip' or 'truth'._

So, this letter must contain vital information. No surprise, really, as it was the only thing in the room besides himself, thus it must be important. _Stupid_.

Sherlock opened the envelope to find a short note written on the same expensive paper and the same classic typewriter.

_A1 to H8_

_60 minutes_

_Starting now_

Sherlock had barely read the letter before a deafening roar sounded through the small room, resembling the sound echoing through a prison when the cell doors open or close.

It lasted for barely two seconds, not needing any longer to establish that the countdown had indeed started.

"What the bloody hell…?" A crackled but familiar voice sounded when the noise stopped.

"John?!" Sherlock called into the nothingness.


	2. 59:57

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed with relief but didn't let it seep into his voice; "Yes, it's me. Obviously."

He let his eyes analyse the ceiling, but he couldn't even see the speakers. Might be somehow hidden behind the lights around the edge of the ceiling, making the sound come from everywhere.

"Well, sounds like you are doing splendidly," The gruff reply slightly echoed in the small empty room.

John grunted, and his voice clearly indicated that he had just been awakened by the alarm. Sherlock allowed his voice to soften a bit when he continued; "Yes. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm alright. Not the worst place I've woken up in, I guess."

Sherlock frowned at this comment. Of course, John had been to war, and military camps were not the most comfortable, but he was fairly certain that the military provided better for their soldiers than a jail cell. Maybe he was referring to when he had been kidnapped by Moriarty, or The Black Lotus or – _God, how many times had he been kidnapped for one of their cases?_ "What do you mean?"

"Well, despite the lock on the door, it's almost like home. Which might say more about our living room than this place. What the hell is this place, Sherlock?" John might sound more awake, but he was not making much sense.

"John, what exactly are you seeing? Be precise!" Sherlock started pacing the small room. No more than three perky steps to reach from one wall to the other. He was quickly feeling confined.

"It's a small room. Dark-red carpet and sort of… dark-beige walls, I guess. But pictures and posters everywhere-"

"You are not being precise, John! Stand in front of the door and turn to your left. Tell me exactly what you see."

"Alright," John huffed, "Door looks metal. There's a numerical lock on it, so I would need the right combination to get out. Four digits. Then there's some bookcases filled with different books, and then a bureau, and a desk and an armchair, and more bookcases, and a trunk. Everything is filled with lots of different stuff, too much to name it all; a globe, a stuffed bird, an easel and just so many things, Sherlock. Lots of piles of papers and books and magazines. Like I said, pretty much like Baker Street, minus the skull."

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to imagine the room, but without knowing the type of bookcases, the size of the furniture, the specific papers and books, or any significant details at all, he had a very limited picture. He didn't even know if the room was the same size as his own, just that it was 'small'. But right now, interior design was not a priority; "Sounds like you got the better hospitality, then. My room is an empty cell."

John was quiet for a moment before sighing; "I get the feeling that this 'hospitality' is not exactly an advantage."

"I fear you might be right," Sherlock leaned his forehead against one of the walls. He couldn't explain it, but he got the feeling that John was on the other side of this specific wall. Maybe it was the placement of the door. Or the echo from the speakers when John was talking. Or just dumb hope. But he stood by the wall, that he fully believed was nearest John. This close, the wall was a grey blur, and yet their predicament started to become clear to him; "They have placed me in a room with nothing to observe, and you in a room with plenty to observe. But you do not have the ability to correctly observe your surroundings, nor to filter what is important and what is not."

"And who are 'they'?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, "What do you remember?"

"We were in the car park and I was on the phone. You made a weird noise, so I turned around and saw a guy in a black ski mask with a needle to your neck. You passed out almost immediately. I tried to get to you, but someone got me from behind as well."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. Whoever had put them here, they were very capable. He had not even seen the second man behind John. They had truly gone out of their way to keep him from any visual input.

"Sherlock," The way John spoke his name, still calm but with a hint of desperation, made Sherlock raise his head from the wall, putting his thoughts of their kidnappers aside for now, "There's a clock in here, and it seems to be counting down."

Of course, the letter. _Stupid!_ _To forget the only clue that he actually had!_

"I can explain that," Sherlock reached for the letter on the floor, "I have a letter in here, envelope saying; '411', and the note saying; 'A1 to H8. 60 minutes. Starting now.' Does that fit the countdown, assuming it started when you were awoken by the alarm?"

"Oh! So you just forgot that you received a cryptic letter from our incarcerator?!" John exclaimed, partly sarcastically, but clearly trying to mask his unease.

"John! The clock! Is there approximately 56 minutes left?"

"55:49."

Sherlock adjusted his internal timer.

"Well, Mary is expecting me home tonight. She'll send for someone when I don't turn up or ring to let her know that I'm late."

"And will that be within the next hour?" Sherlock's voice could have been dripping with disbelief.

"I don't know. My watch is gone. I have no idea what time it is," John ended with muttered profanities.

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of his face as the game became clearer; "The code in the letter must somehow relate to something in your room, John. If we break the code, we get out of here."

"So, this is an escape room?"

"A what?"

"An escape room. Remember last year? An escape room opened near the clinic and I asked if you wanted to go to kill some boredom before you ended up blowing up the apartment with your manic experiments. But no, one look as the homepage and you had already it cracked," John laughed, but it was laced with frustration and Sherlock could picture him pacing in his own room, "But you know, that means that this is probably not the only puzzle to solve. We don't know how many there is, and we are running out of time. So I could surely have used the experience now!"

Another moment of silence, where Sherlock could hear John taking a few deep breaths. He knew from experience that this was John packing his emotions away and allowing the soldier in him to take over. He waited and allowed it to happen.

"Alright," John was calm when he spoke again, frustration no longer lingering in his voice, "411 you said? In the military that is code for briefing before a mission. Though I guess that that is pretty clear. The letter is our mission."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, "'60 minutes. Starting now.' That part is pretty clear too, so we should focus on the A1 to H8."

"Sounds like a move in chess," John supplied.

"Yes, obvious," Sherlock frowned down at the paper on the floor next to him. _It almost seems to easy_ , "Do you have a chessboard in there?"

He could hear John scrambling around the room, opening and closing drawers. Sherlock threw his head back against the wall, regretting it when the pain did nothing to dissolve his frustrations. This was already taking too long! The seconds pounded in his head for every moment John didn't find that damn chessboard. If he could just see the room, just for a second, he would find that chessboard and-

"I don't think there's a chessboard in here," John's hesitated answer finally crackled in the speaker.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock jumped up, no longer able to stand still by the wall, walking in a circle in the small room and gesturing frustratingly.

"No, Sherlock! I'm not bloody sure! There's so much stuff in here!"

"Keep looking!"

"What do you think I'm doing?!" As if John's frustration with his flatmate was not clear enough in his voice, it was followed by a bump of something hitting the carpeted floor hard, though not breaking.

Sherlock grabbed his hair as a last attempt to disperse his inner turmoil. It wouldn't help the situation if they started yelling at each other. It had not been a minute since John had calmed himself down for the first time, and Sherlock had already winded him up again. They were both put in their least favourable position. This was a test. Testing them, testing their… what? Cooperation? Cunning?

He had to stop the frustration and start _thinking_!

 _This seems to easy_.

If it seems to easy, then it probably is. There had to be more to it. Maybe chess wasn't the solution.

"John, wait!" The noises stopped in the speaker, indicating that John had stopped and was listening, "It might not be a chessboard. Maybe, it's a chess piece. A1 and H8 are dedicated to the rooks. Do you have a rook in there?"

"No, Sherlock, and no bloody towers in here either…" Came the despondent answer.

Then what? A1 to H8. Across the board, one corner to the other. But the rook cannot move like that. That would be the bishops. Sherlock almost suggested for John to look for a bishop but decided against it. He could already hear John's sarcastic answer to such a request.

Not a rook. Not a bishop. Something else that can just fly across the boa–

"John!"

"Yes?"

"The bird! You mentioned a taxidermal bird! What kind of bird?"

John made an exasperated sound before answering; "I don't know! It's black. A crow or raven maybe?"

"Or a rook!"

"…You serious?"

Sherlock could have strangled the disbelieve in John's voice; "A rook that is able to move across the board, in a bee-line from one corner to the other. Not a tower, but a bird. Check the bird!"

John went to the black bird sitting on the bureau. Nothing tied to the leg or sticking to the feathers. He lifted it to look underneath the piece of wood that the bird was made to sit on, but as he lifted it, something small fell from the beak, chinking against the front of the bureau before falling to the carpet.

John sat the bird down and carefully picked up the small object.


	3. 48:36

"Anything?" Sherlock's impatient question made John jump as he was pulled from his studying of the small object and he almost dropped it again.

"For the love of… Yes, there is something. Small, white thing from the beak of the bird, but I can't tell what it is. One moment, maybe there's a magnifying glass somewhere."

John carefully put down the object on the dark wooden surface of the desk and started looking through the drawers for something to get a closer look at what he had found. He quickly found the desired magnifying glass, making him glance confidently at the still ticking clock, thinking this shouldn't take too long. Even though Sherlock was caught on the other side, he was ever certain that the detective would solve this puzzle.

He studied the small object and was surprised to find; "It's a stirrup bone!"

"A stirrup bone?" Came the deep, crackling voice over the speakers.

"Yes, you know, from the ear," Though John knew that Sherlock's question was not aimed at what John had said but at what the meaning of the bone could be, he still found it natural to answer the question, though he also expected the response that he promptly received.

"I know what a stirrup bone is, John."

"So, do you also know what it means?" John ventured hopefully.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before admitting; "No."

John nodded and started resuming his role of stating the obvious. Despite Sherlock's less than kind reactions when John did this, he had also made it clear on more than one occasion that he needed John for just that. To be a 'normal' sounding board that allowed Sherlock to think outside the box by eliminating the obvious or triggering the incredible that only Sherlock could see; "Okay, so a stirrup bone. Or stapes. Any experience in riding?"

"Don't be ridiculous-"

"Yeah, me neither…" John, again, expected the reaction.

"-John. You need to look closer, observe that bone and what is around you."

"I'm trying, Sherlock, but I'm not you!" John immediately regretted his outburst and took a deep breath, but the patronizing tone from the speakers grinded so easily on his nerves. Despite his military experience, he was more used to people shooting bullets at him than people shooting down his good intentions, so Sherlock's attitude always rubbed him the wrong way, whether he expected the reaction or not. Luckily, Sherlock was not the kind of person to care about emotional outburst, as long as they didn't interfere with his cases, "Alright. Stirrup bone. Smallest bone. Difficult to observe like this. Maybe I should try to find a microscope instead."

John started scrambling around the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboard doors. He noticed the silence from the other room. No walking, no shuffling. No outbursts of genius. Not good.

He mentally kicked his earlier cockiness in the face. This was not going to be solved I mere minutes – Only problem was that that was all they had.

He finally came across a trunk where he found what he was looking for and happily proclaimed; "Got a microscope!"

"Good! Anything?" Sherlock's impatience was unquenchable.

"One moment, one moment," John carefully placed the microscope on the desk and slid the small bone onto the slide, "Er… Okay, definitely stirrup bone… Wait… It looks like the bone has been honed. Let me just turn it over."

"Where is it honed?"

"Er… At what would be the bottom if it were a riding stirrup. You know, under the part where you would place your foot."

"And what would that mean, doctor?"

The use of title was not lost on John, and he recognised that Sherlock needed his medical opinion on this, as much as his simple observation of the bone.

"Otosclerosis," The answer came quick and confident. John looked up from the microscope, brows furrowed in thought, "Meaning that the stirrup bone would have been fused with the surrounding bones. This honing could be sign of a stapedotomy, the necessary surgery to regain hearing."

"So, this person was deaf?" Sherlock asked, John noticing that his voice had become more focused. This was good.

"More or less. Otosclerosis prevents sound from being transmitted to the inner ear. At least the person would be needing hearing aids," John supplied.

John could almost hear the hands steepling underneath Sherlock's chin; "Anything else?"

John looked back into the microscope, now having turned the small bone, "It looks quite rough. I'm no otologist, but I don't think this was professionally done. It is a risky procedure, so I hope that it wasn't… hey, wait a minute-"

"What!?" John could imagine how Sherlock had perked his head at the outburst, like a dog catching a scent.

"There's a pattern in the abrasions. XCIX."

"99?" Steps sounded from Sherlock's room as he started pacing, adding energy into his processing of the data, "99, 99, 99, 99, 99. What does that mean to you, John?"

"Me!?"

"Yes, this 99 must mean something to you. This entire thing is arranged around you and me. Chess is my game. Medicine is yours. This number was meant for you to find it. What is the first thing that comes to mind?"

"We've got 99 problem but the B ain't one?" John couldn't help the quote leaping from his lips before he thought it through.

"…This is no time for jokes!" Sherlock clearly didn't appreciate it either, "99, John, 99!"

"All hands."

"What?"

"All hands. In the US navy, they use 99 as slang for 'all hands', meaning an entire ship's crew. Picked it up when cooperating in Afghanistan," John told out loud, not sure if he was surprised or not by still remembering the term so easily. It was not normally used in the army and his contact to the navy had been limited. Still, he clearly heard the call in his head, when the navy was rounding up their men to leave their temporary sandy base.

"Oh, this is good!"

John sighed, partly relieved and partly annoyed by the exited exclaim from the other end of the speaker; "What is it, Sherlock, time is running out here!"

"Think, John! A deaf person, a reference 'to all hands'. That bone was not removed as part of a surgery, probably not removed until after death, so this person must have been deaf while alive. You said it yourself; it is a risky procedure, so maybe this person chose not to have it. So how would they communicate with the outside world when unable to hear?"

"Sign language," John answered, baffled – but very happily so – by his friends once-again quick and unordinary thinking.

"Is there anything in there that could symbolise sign language, or maybe a book on it or-" Sherlock started rambling on until John cut him off.

"Got it! There a model of a hand, you know one of those things people use to practice drawing hands from."

"Good! Don't touch anything! Left or right hand? What is the hand doing? Is it pointing at anything? Showing any symbol?" Sherlock redirected his rambling to quick questioning.

"Er, left hand," Probably not a coincidence, John thought, if this was all related to him. John quirked his head at the hand and tried to relate what he was seeing; "It's kind of a fist, but the index finger is lifted a bit, bended slightly."

"X. It's the sign of X," Sherlock luckily interpreted his description.

"X marks the spot," John looked around on the bookshelf, finding that the finger was pointing at a bunch of magazines on the shelf above the hand.


	4. 39:22

"I assume we are not so lucky that the finger is pointing at the code for the door?" Sherlock paced the small room, clasping and unclasping his hands as he went. His inner clock told them that they had just over 39 minutes left, and no idea how many riddles or tests they had to go through.

"No, it pointed at a magazine. It's the BMJ Military Health magazine," John's voice related over the speakers.

Sherlock could hear the glossy pages being flipped through as John looked for their next clue.

Sherlock took the few seconds while John was looking to reconsider their situation. He was missing something.

This 'escape room' was not made of silly little puzzles and cipher codes as the one that John had shown him on the internet. Everything was related to either John or himself. It should make it easier to solve these little games.

Except.

Sherlock could not see the room with the clues, obviously. Meaning that the solution to the first riddle might have been pure luck. If John had not mentioned the taxidermal bird, would Sherlock still have made the connection between rook, the chess piece, and rook, the bird? Maybe, eventually. But eventually might not be fast enough.

Sherlock heavily disliked not being able to see, to observe, what was on the other side of the wall. He was being robbed of so much information.

And though he trusted John and knew that his friend was doing everything in his power to relate the information correctly, he would not be able to make the same connections as Sherlock. John was a good doctor and a good soldier, which was evident in how he had just analysed the stirrup bone. But putting the pieces together – and initially discovering all the pieces – took too long.

 _38 minutes_ , and all Sherlock had was the frustrating ruffle of magazine pages, turned too slowly, looked over too slowly, probably missing important bits.

"Here's something," John's voice broke his line of thinking.

_Finally!_

John continued; "Page 24 is dog-eared. An article about opioids; ' _Opioids; A Pathological Use of Substances_ '. Well, I think we know who that is aimed at, huh?"

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered automatically as his brain started running through opioids. Opium. Morphine alkaloid. Codeine. Thebaine. Papaverine. Heroin. None of these had never been his drug of choice. So why reference it?

There was another reference; Afghanistan is leading in opium cultivation. Could this be about John again? Or maybe, it was just another hint to the doctor finding it. Or-

John interfered his thoughts again; "Any idea what this is about?"

"Shut up. Need to think. See if there is anything remotely drug related in your room," Sherlock cut off his friend. He vaguely heard John starting rummaging in the other room. What did this mean? Maybe it was just a generic reference to Sherlock's past drug use. In that case, the clue would be something else on that page. He considered asking John to start reading the article, but it had to be something more visible, something that could be deduced or derived from the article, just as a tower had led to a bird and a bone to a hand. This was a test of skills, not just a matter of stating the obvious. So, this was not about drugs, maybe nicotine? No, nicotine in that sense was also a drug. But something similar, something-.

"I don't see anything in here," John stated before coughing hoarsely.

"Oh, stop that. Breath properly. Stop interrupting!" The words came out harsh and Sherlock immediately felt guilty. Something else poked at him, something subconsciously, but he pushed it into the background to solve the more pressing matter.

Think! What could opioids symbolise in his life, besides the obvious? Maybe his occupation, the cases, as they had taken over from his substance addiction? Could it be a reference to an old case? But there had been plenty of drug related cases, both buyers, distributors, manufacturers-

" _Opioids; A Pathological Use of Substances_. What a stupid title… And the content is really not any better…" John mumbled, probably thinking that he was only talking to himself and that Sherlock would ignore him as usual when thinking. But right now, Sherlock's brain had a fragment constantly monitoring the speakers for anything useful, so the mumbling reached him just as efficiently as if John had shouted.

"John! I told you to sto- Oh! _Oh_! Oh, John, you brilliant little conductor…" Sherlock trailed off as he completed his mental picture.

"What brilliant thing did I do now?" John prompted, clearly not as impressed as Sherlock.

"The title! Its right there. _Opioids; A Pathological Use of Substances_. If you take the first letter of the words spelled with capital letters – or which would be spelled with capital letters, in case the article is spelled in all capital letters, but leave out 'a' and 'of', as it would normally be spelled in small letters – you get O-P-U-S. Opus. Combined with the page number, you have Opus 24, a sonata by Beethoven. More precisely, violin sonata number 5. Also known as Frühlingssonate, meaning the Spring Sonata. Anything spring related in the room, John?" Sherlock rambled as a wide smile spread across his face, rejoicing in the mental stimulation. This made such perfect sense. If the detective did not get his stimulation from drugs or nicotine or cases, the next best thing was to pick up his violin. The challenging instrument stimulated his mind and the music somehow expressed the thoughts that he could not collect. The pattern of the music was both enticing and relaxing, and helped placing his mind in a flowing state that the boring, basic existence could not.

"Spring? Like flowers or the sun or a spring shower? What the hell am I looking for, Sherlock? A book? A picture?"

"I don't know, John! You need to use your eyes!" Sherlock threw his hands into the air, not having anything physical to aim his frustration at.

John started perusing the shelves, checking every book title. He tried to take time to not just read the title but analyse if it in any way could be related to spring, or violin, or Beethoven, but progress was slow, and he was painfully aware of the clock ticking on the wall just next to him. And he didn't even know anything about Beethoven!

Should he categorise the books, now that he was going through them? Or maybe it was stupid to move them, if at some point the key to a puzzle was the current position of the books? Maybe there was already a system to them, and he was just _too_ _bloody stupid_ to recognise it.

He deeply wished that Sherlock was here, or their roles had been reversed. Then they would probably already be out of here, having a nice cup of tea in 221B.

Though John felt privileged to work with Sherlock, it was no secret that it was an uneven partnership. Surely, John made his contributions to the cases, but he mainly followed and supported Sherlock. He couldn't do what Sherlock did, and whoever had placed them here was clearly aware of the fact, putting them in these reverse positions, where John had to crack the case and Sherlock was the supporter.

"Anything, John?!" Came the impatient 'support' from the speaker.

"No, Sherlock, but I've only gone through one bookcase. There are still five cases to go, plus all the papers, plus the magazines, and oh, let's not forget all the pictures and posters on the walls. And for all we know, there's just another test waiting, and time is still running!" John finally took in a much-needed breath. The rambling may not have been long, but apparently his thoughts was currently more than enough to take his breath away.

He knew that he was being irrational and that never helped anything, but he felt so God damn helpless. It was the worst feeling he knew. Standing over a patient, knowing there was nothing he could do to help. Standing next to Sherlock, not understanding a thing coming out of that inane, brilliant head. Or standing in a room filled to the brick with information that he just did not know how to overcome.

Sherlock stopped in his pacing, turning to the wall that had come to represent John, "Then it cannot be spring. Surely there is an element of treasure hunt to this little game, but once we have the correct clue, it should be easier than looking through every inch of the room to discover the next."

John recognised the read-between-the-lines-apology – Sherlock did not mean to repeatedly push him, but they were both feeling caught between a rock and a hard place, and it was bound to be expressed somehow, and each other was all they had to express it to – and therefore answered more calmly; "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't think they are actually interested in us making it out of here."

"They want to prove that they are clever. They don't stop at the first available information. If they did, the first riddle would simply had led to a chessboard or a tower, the second one to a horse or an ear. If that was all that they were capable of, they should join the Yard. But no. We need to think one step further."

"Get to it then! What is special about that Opus 24 sonata?" John pushed the genius.

"It was dedicated to Count Moritz von Fries. He was an Austrian noble. A banker and arts enthusiast," Sherlock related.

"Okay, so Count, Austrian and banker are the potential key words…" Sherlock could imagine how John was scanning the room for any relevant clues based on the cues from Sherlock, "Nothing special about Austria on the globe, so probably not it. I don't think I see any atlases. I don't know what the whole 'count'-thing could be symbolised by…"

For a moment, the speakers transmitted nothing but the frustrated sounds from the neighbouring cell. Sherlock's heavy steps when pacing and John's huffing while turning and looking over all the clutter in his room.

"Wait, Sherlock. I think I have it!"

"What is it?" Sherlock almost jumped in excitement.

"There's a piggy bank."

"…That can't possibly-"

"We have a small bank symbolising the banker, and there's a poppy flower drawn on the one side of it. I didn't see it before, because it was turned towards the wall. But poppies are a source of opium."

Well, it was not the clue that Sherlock expected, but it certainly had merits.

"Alright. Is there anything inside?" Before Sherlock ended the question, the sound of a broken clay piggy rattled through the speakers.

"Yes. A new riddle," John couldn't not hide his disappointment, no matter how predictable the result. A numerical code for the front door would have been very much preferred.


	5. 30:08

Sherlock took a deep breath. Despite the enjoyable stimuli of this game, he would enjoy it much better if John was not locked up with him. Or, next to him, as he presumed.

And that was just another aspect of this thing. Despite every instinct telling him that John was next door, he could not know for sure. He kept assuming that it was part of the game that _when_ John broke out of his room, he would also be able to free Sherlock. But Sherlock had no proof of this theory. He had no proof of anything, caught up in this void room.

No matter. Get John out. No time to lose.

"If the riddle follows the pattern until now, this one should be aimed at your strengths, John."

"Great," The sarcasm was thick in John's voice – Despite Sherlock's difficulties with this particular nuance to the spoken language, he was no longer a stranger to John's specific pronunciations.

John continued; "But this makes no sense! Listen;

_I send you a message._

_I am number 1 and number 80._

_I am the smallest and closest._

_Quick now."_

John ended the recitation with a frustrated huff.

For a moment, everything was silent, as both men pondered the new riddle. They searched both memory and palace for something to fit this description, but the lack of an enthusiastic 'eureka!' spoke volumes of their progress.

The only disturbance to the quiet was a couple of small, dry coughs from John, before he finally broke the silence more forcefully; "Alright, listen Sherlock. This riddle might be aimed at me, but I still need your help. I need you to do that thing where you talk me through it."

"What 'thing'?" Sherlock frowned.

"That thing where you… Well, where you speak to me as if I was stupid and suddenly the gibberish you're speaking makes sense. You know, like when you solve a case and then spell it out."

"I don't speak gibberish. You are just simply too slow to understand," Sherlock huffed.

"Exactly! So lay it down for me!" John exclaimed.

A heartbeat of silence before Sherlock started a ramble; "First line; 'I send you a message'. This is of course obvious, we have said message at hand, but considering our previous challenges, there is surely a clue hidden in that sentence. The word 'message' stands out the most, so it is most likely the word of significance. Second line; 'I am number 1 and number 80'. It cannot be a rating, as one cannot have two different placings in the same discipline, so this must relate to two different listings. A listing related to a message? No, stupid. Whatever it is, it appears in multiple forms, like a professional swimmer being rated in two different disciplines. But what kind of professional would be the best in one discipline and so sub-par in another? I think we can rule out sports, despite being an area of interest to you, John. Unless there is a current Rugby team that fits said rating. Third line; 'I am the smallest and closest'. Indicates a comparison, but to what? The other lines must guide in the correct direction. Whatever this is, it is not the only thing of its kind. Forth line; 'Quick now'. Now this is interesting. This sentence is misspelled. It should be 'Quick _ly_ now'. The adverb, not the adjective. This is not a random mistake, but most surely an important clue. Whatever we are searching for is quick or related to speed. Now, John, what does that mean to you?"

The answering silence was not exactly what Sherlock had been hoping for as Sherlock had so pedagogically 'laid it down' as John has asked, but he accepted John's need to think his words over. And true to form, John quickly – at least for his capacity – caught up to Sherlock's analysis.

"Alright. So, a message, something with more than one meaning or in multiple forms, not the only one of its kind and it's quick. Quick, quick, quick. A car? More than one car for sure, and they are ranked and they are quick. But what does a car have to do with messages? Could it be a post van? But what does that have to do with anything? And how would that be the smallest and the closest?" John contemplated out loud.

"Not a post van," Sherlock growled out, clearly thinking it an absolutely ridiculous idea. He wondered why he himself couldn't figure out this riddle. Riddles where supposed to be based in logic, sometimes to the extreme and often creative, but logic none the less. And he was after all the expert in logic in this partnership. So why did the answer elude him? What was missing in his extensive libraries that prevented him from cracking this clue?

_Of course._

"John. You have to think within the parameters of my lack of knowledge. You have often listed inane pop cultural references that had no meaning to me or pointed out the apparent need to know the name of the current prime minister. You have to think within these lines. If the answer had been within my range of knowledge, I would have given the answer to the riddle already."

"Right," Came the short answer, but Sherlock could also hear the wheels turning on the other side of the wall, so he bit his tongue for a moment. He was rewarded with a much more enthusiastic; "Right!"

"John?" The simple word held all the questions he wanted to ask.

"Sherlock, it's mercury!-"

"Mercury? But I know mercury, and that doesn't fit the-" Sherlock was cut off as quickly as he himself had interrupted John.

"The planet, you git!" John exclaimed. It was widely known that this was one of Sherlock's great shortcomings – since it was John's very own blog that had published the fact. As soon as Sherlock had planted the idea, John's thoughts had gone to the list that he had just a few years ago made from his initial observations of the detective.

John started mimicking Sherlock's earlier breakdown of the riddle, and even in this situation, the irony of him breaking down the answer was not lost on the doctor; "First line; Message. Mercury was the messenger of the gods in roman mythology. Second line; Mercury is the first planet from the sun, but the element mercury is number 80 in the periodic table. Third line; Like I said, Mercury is the first planet from the sun and thereby the closest, plus it is the smallest of the planets. At least after poor Pluto got voted out. And lastly; The misspelling of quickly. Mercury is also known as _quick_ silver. Plus, Mercury the messenger of the gods was known for being fast. It all fits, it's Mercury!"

"Good work, doctor," Sherlock appraised as he heard John ripping some paper.

"This is two cases where astronomy has come in handy. I think it underlines the need for you to expand your knowledge on the solar system," John couldn't help the friendly jab and the smile on his lips as he pulled a solar system poster from the walls. He first tried to loosen the poster carefully, but his hands seemed to fail him, probably shaking from the adrenaline that this escape room was infusing in him, making his hands slightly uncooperative. In the end, he tore it from its pins.

Sherlock chuckled in the speakers, "I might actually stand corrected. But then again, I have you for that kind of superfluous information."

John chuckled back before regaining his composure; "Right, well. No lock combination behind Mercury, but this one is definitely up your alley."


	6. 22:49

"Looks like a crime scene photo. There's a text on the back saying 'I killed me, but I wasn't caught'."

"They want us to prove a suicide?" Sherlock wondered out loud, "Hm, I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that the law enforcement couldn't even solve that. Then again, the note says that 'I wasn't caught', indicating that someone else might have been. What is the scene, John?"

No answer.

"John?!"

"Yeah, sorry. Just felt a bit lightheaded for a moment," His voice was slightly off, but he seemed to shake it off as he quickly continued, "It's a woman laying on a stone bridge. Cause of death seems to be a bullet wound to the right temple. Small calibre."

Sherlock waited for three seconds before exclaiming; "That's it? John, that can't possibly be all you can see from that picture!"

"Why don't you just come in here and see for yourself, then!?" John countered, only to break into a coughing fit.

Sherlock was about to scold John for his lack of information from the picture, but was caught by John's tone of voice and his third cough within the last 40 minutes; "John, have you been getting sick?"

"What?" John had clearly not anticipated the change of subject, knowing that Sherlock would normally had been about to remind him of his lack of ability _to_ _observe_.

"You have coughed three times and a moment ago you said you were feeling lightheaded. Have you been coming down with something, have a throat ache maybe?"

"No, but… you're right, I don't feel very good. The coughing, the light-headedness. My breathing is a bit rapid, but that's to be expected under this kind of stress," John tried to dismiss the symptoms.

Sherlock didn't let him; "I think you underestimate yourself, John. Yes, your breathing changes during stress, but it is never to a point where you start coughing, not even when we have been running through the streets all night. And you surely don't become lightheaded. Anything else. Even the smallest thing?"

"Sherlock, I don't think this a prio-"

"John!"

Despite their years together, it still hit John unpleasantly hard when Sherlock showed open concern for him. Sure, it was nice to feel that the detective cared, as feelings did not come easy to him. However, this also meant that Sherlock was seriously concerned, when he finally chose to express his feelings. The tone of Sherlock's voice when shouting his name left no room for debate.

"Er… A bit of a headache. And when I took down the poster, I found it a bit difficult to make my hands cooperate," He tried to downplay the symptoms, even if the seriousness started to dawn on him as well.

"Shortness of breath, elevated breathing, light-headedness, lack of coordination and headache. Given what we knew about the previous victims before being brought here; What is your diagnosis, doctor?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"Asphyxia," John answered automatically, "This is how they died. They failed to solve their puzzles, and there is not enough air in here to survive for much longer than the hour given for the puzzles?"

Sherlock pulled at his hair. This was the missing piece, what he had overlooked in his frustration since the beginning. One thing was the added challenge of being caught in two different rooms, being deprived of the necessary visual inputs to solve the puzzles. But the timer. It had been staring him in the face, all this time, since the blasting buzzing when he read the first riddle. Of course there would be a consequence to losing the game. And three others had already lost before them, though they had probably only occupied the escape room without a partner in the neighbouring cell. But for someone like Sherlock, being literally caught inside a riddle would only be a thrill. For anyone else, it was a stressor. The only way to make this game just as stressful for Sherlock, would be to distance him from the riddle, and put his only friend in the line of fire instead. And to let said friend take the punishment for Sherlock's shortcomings.

"What's the time? 18:36?" Sherlock asked, voicing none of his actual thoughts.

"You know it. So, let's solve this crime, shall we?" John answered, detached from his own situation. _Soldier – And a doctor._

Sherlock took a breath, breathing in the calmness of John's voice, dragging his hands down over his face, until they rested in their grounding position in front of his eyes and his voice evenly grinded out; "Tell me more about the victim."

"Right. Like I said; Female. 35-40 years old, I would estimate. Dark hair, almost black. Eyes closed, so I can't determine eye colour. Olive skin."

"Could she be Brazilian?" Sherlock interrupted.

"I guess." John confirmed, "You know the case?"

"I read about it online. Maria Gibson, ex-wife of Neil Gibson, was murdered by Grace Dunbar, Mr. Gibson's secretary. Mr. Gibson left his wife to be with said secretary instead. I wondered why Miss Dunbar would kill Mrs. Gibson, when Mr. Gibson had already left his wife to make room for her. Miss Dunbar claimed to be innocent, but many guilty people do. Further, the evidence of the case included that Mrs. Gibson had a note from Miss Dunbar to meet at the bridge and the weapon, the gun, was found in Miss Dunbar's closet. Stupid place to hide a murder weapon, don't you think? The river beneath the bridge would have been a much better choice. But it would not be the first nor last foolish decision by a jealous murderer. Hardly worth looking further in to at the time," Sherlock related while recalling the online news clippings in his mind. There had not been any pictures of the crime scene.

"So, what is the clue? Brazil? Infidelity? Suicide?" John asked impatiently.

"The correct method of the suicide. That is the only open question," Sherlock concluded, "The picture already confirms suicide, which explains the lack of motive and poor concealment of the murder weapon. But it still does not explain how Miss Dunbar was framed."

"Well, we know that she was shot. How did she shoot herself without leaving a gun behind?" John asked.

Sherlock couldn't help the appraising grin spreading on his face; "How indeed, John."

As much as the wrong questions could infuriate Sherlock, the right questions could please him twice as much. But no matter which type of question John asked, they usually led them in the right direction, by either excluding the irrelevant or focusing on the important.

'How?' was the big question. Did she have an accomplish who removed the gun once fired? Possible but boring. It couldn't be that easy.

A poorly hidden cough from John replaced the grin with a frown and Sherlock instead hissed frustratedly; "Does the photograph only show the body or is there anything else?"

John sighed; "Like I already said, there is the body lying of the stone bridge-"

"What part of the bridge can you see?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Er, mostly the railing. The picture is taken almost down in the same level as the body, so you can see a bit of the walk path of the bridge between the body and the railing, but most of it is the body and the railing."

"The railing…" Sherlock pondered out loud.

It sounded like an odd angle for taking a photograph, so it must have some importance. The body, the railing, the missing gu-, "Oh! I'm such an idiot!"

"No argument there," John grumbled, though a bit of hopefulness sneaked into the normally snide remark.

"Don't you see, John, I already answered the question!"

"No, I don't see, Sherlock. I think it might all be in your head."

"Look carefully at the picture, John. Is there a chip in the stone of the railing, as if recently hit by an object?"

"Er… Yeah, might be one by the top edge of the railing," John squinted while looking at the small spot of a lighter colour on the grey stone.

"Oh, this is brilliant-"

"Sherlock, the time!"

"Right," Sherlock took a deep breath before conveying his deductions in rapid speed, "Miss Dunbar asked to meet Mrs. Gibson to clear the air. Mrs. Gibson took the opportunity to frame Miss Dunbar for murder. After meeting at the bridge, Mrs. Gibson tied a gun to a heavy object with a long piece of string of then hung the heavy object from the side of the bridge. Once she fired the gun and her dead hand let go of it, the heavy object pulled the gun into the river beneath. When the gun hit the railing, it left a chip in the stone. So, like I said when citing the case to you; the river would be a much better hiding place for a murder weapon than a closet."

"But then how did the gun end up in Miss Dunbar's closet?"

"Mrs. Gibson placed it there. She purchased two completely identical guns and placed one in Miss Dunbar's closet and used the other to kill herself."

"Brilliant," John huffed out with a smile, "So what is the clue for this riddle?"

"The break in the case is the identical guns, so there must be something identical in your room, John. Two of a kind." Sherlock paced even more agitatedly, eager to see the room for himself, instead of just listening to John's heavier breathing when scanning the room, looking so long for what would be so obvious to the detective.

"And I thought you said that it was never twins…" John muttered during his search before finally saying the magic words; "Here, I think I got it."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

"There are two identical book ends on one of the bookshelves. Shaped like a tiger or something-"

"A jaguar."

"What?"

"It probably has spots. It's a jaguar, the national animal of brazil," Sherlock dragged his hands down his face, now being confirmed in the constant nagging that he had felt in the pit of his stomach. The lack of visual input was significantly slowing their escape. He would have recognised the animal shaped book ends much sooner and realised its possible connection to the case without having to solve the crime first. Brazilian victim, Brazilian book ends. _Obvious_.

"Oh, yeah," John just answered, and Sherlock was in dire need of something to rip apart or shoot at to be relieved from some of this pent-up frustration.

He was distracted when John made a surprised sound followed by a heavy thump on the floor; "John?"

"One of the book ends was hollow," John explained, "And there was a bloody cannonball inside it!"

"A cannonball?" Sherlock had to admit that he had not seen this one coming.

"Something is written on it. 'N.E.C.K.S.'."


	7. 08:11

"Necks?"

"N-E-C-K-S. With full stops in between," John spelled out.

"So, an abbreviation," Sherlock concluded, steepling his hands underneath his chin.

John led out a tired, harsh sigh, his breathing getting worse by the minute. Cannonball. Necks. It made absolutely no sense, and he was pretty sure that it was not just due to the lack of oxygen; "Please tell me that this means something to you?"

"…Well, I wanted to be a pirate as a child," Sherlock replied while his mind kept turning pages of brain-virtual information that could hopefully be useful.

"Yes, Mycroft told me."

"He did?" Sherlock sounded surprised.

"So, this is probably meant for you. Anything pirate related about N.E.C.K.S.?"

"No, don't be foolish. And shut up." Sherlock shook his head to erase John's interference, and his own distraction by something as foolish as his stupid older brother mentioning a childhood memory of him.

Returning to his mind palace, he ran through his available information. Cannonball. Cannon. Weapon. Artillery. Gun. Shot. Gunpowder. _No, no, no, different direction_. N.E.C.K.S. Body part, connecting head to torso. The Necks, Australian jazz trio. No known abbreviation. _This makes no sense! Change angle!_ N.E.C.K.S. Five letters, five words, related to cannonballs, or cannons. A cannon maker? Irrelevant. No relation to him or John. Cannon. N.E.C.K.S. Five letters. Five names. Five persons. Five-

"-Victims!" The last word slipped out loud as the pieces fell into place.

"What?" John asked confused.

"The canonical five victims, John!" Sherlock grinned in excitement, "Jack the Ripper was suspected of 11 murders, but six are doubtful. But, five of them, the so-called canonical five, are widely accepted as his victims. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly. The first letter of their last names; N, C, S, E, K. Change the order, and you get…"

"N.E.C.K.S.," John completed impressed. God, the detective would never stop amazing him. But what did that mean. What was they clue? Wait, they couldn't possibly… "So, they want you to solve who Jack the Ripper was, in 7 bloody minutes!?"

"No, we just solved a murder. They wouldn't repeat themselves like that. It's a decoy. This must be something else," Sherlock growled in frustration, the previous success quickly forgotten, "What do we know about Jack the Ripper?"

"Well, that's the thing about Jack the Ripper, isn't it? That no one really knows anything?" John sighed despairingly.

"John, we have both read and heard about Jack the Ripper. He is infamous. We have a mutual interest in famous crimes during history, and I know that you have read through many of my books on the subject after moving into Baker Street. We know more than you think, but you need to calm down-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

"Your agitation is not helping your oxygen deprivation!"

Silence settled for a moment. John could hear the worry and desperation in Sherlock's voice, and Sherlock could recognise the effect of the still diminishing oxygen in the neighbouring room. Both men were more used to rely on indirect communication – The small looks they shared and had learned to read from one another – so the direct communication didn't come easy.

"Right," John recovered, and Sherlock heard the desk chair creak as the doctor sat down, "Jack the Ripper. If we look past the legend of the man and focus on the victims and the facts…"

Sherlock caught on; "They were also known as the Whitechapel murders. Less dramatic and much more relevant. Do we know anything useful about Whitechapel, something relevant for our lives?"

"Er… Well, the area is named after a small chapel, St. Mary something. Doesn't mean anything to me, except sharing the same name as my fiancé," John squinted his eyes in concentration, dragging his hands over his face in the process.

"Same for me. But Mary has not been a significant part of my life, as I've only just met her. I acknowledge the influence she has had on your life since… for the last couple of years, but it seems too vague. However, it might be a sign that we are thinking in the right direction. Think specific from your life, John, what have you ever done or where have you ever been connected to in Whitechapel?" Sherlock urged.

After a moment, John answered; "I only know that The Royal London Hospital is placed in Whitechapel."

"You never worked there," Sherlock frowned.

"No, not directly, but they have a cooperation with Bart's because it's part of Bart's Health NHS Trust. So, we exchanged students sometimes during my time training for the army," John told, the sentences coming out more slowly than normally to keep up with his breathing.

"We both have an obvious connection to St. Bart's," Sherlock concurred.

"So, is that it? Is that the clue? Or is it Mary?" John asked uncertainly.

"I…" Sherlock didn't know how to respond.

"We don't have a lot of time left, Sherlock. Which one do we go with?" John was surprisingly calm, yet urgent.

The doctor's calmness only meant that the implications of the imminent decision hit hard, and Sherlock desperately pulled at his hair, as if the action or the pain would sharpen his intuition or make him see a missing clue. But all that popped into his head was the mental clock ticking away John's time. He let out a growl. Why wouldn't his stupid head work?!

"Sherlock," His name was spoken softly, the urgency gone, making Sherlock stop in his tracks, "Whichever we choose, it is not any of our faults if we make the wrong call. We didn't place ourselves here, Sherlock. And we did our best – Yes, we really did, don't contradict me. So promise me something."

John's voice did not sound resigned. Nor hopeless. But it spoke with an accept of the possible outcome of their situation which Sherlock could not accept. Sherlock considered the usual ' _Don't talk like that_ ', _'We'll make it out of here_ ' or simply just ' _Shut up_ ', but John's soft voice quelled his protests and instead he heard himself answer; "What?"

"One, tell Mary I love her… and I'm sorry for not… coming home to her. But most importantly…" John swallowed, partly because it was even harder to breath, so he had to pause during his longer sentences, but mostly, he was finding the next words difficult. The first point had been – In Sherlock's immortal word - _obvious_ , almost unnecessary to say, but he knew that his next request would be difficult to keep. But that was why he needed Sherlock to make the promise, because no matter how little the detective pretended to care, he did care deeply, and he was too honourable to break a promise made to one of the few people that he cared about, "Don't change. Please don't change. No matter what people say… or how they… call you stupid names. They just don't get you. They're too stupid… Ignore them. Just keep helping people… in your own… insane… insulting… insufferable… incredibly brilliant way. Alright?"

The last words were spoken with a soft chuckle, painted by happy memories. Maybe a new symptom to the lack of oxygen was the feeling of euphoria. Or maybe he just chose to focus on the good things, if this was the end.

Sherlock let go of his hair, and let his hands drag down his face, rubbing his eyes, willing the sting behind them away. Sherlock had chosen not to remember every bad word thrown his way, but that didn't mean that they hadn't left scars on him. Why else would he had reacted the way he did the first time John had called his deductions 'amazing'? It was the first time anyone had praised his abilities so easily and honestly. Sure, Lestrade appreciated him, but not in the almost naïve way that John did.

And now the same man chose to use what could possibly be the last four minutes of his life to ensure that Sherlock would do something as _simple_ as _not changing_. Even when everyone else always told him to change, to behave, to be _more normal_.

The simple soldier accepted his faith, provided that his fiancé and friend would be alright. The latter being his biggest concern. Sherlock had never been anyone not-blood-related's greatest concern. He didn't like it. It was painful. Stupid sentiment. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Alright?" John asked a bit more forcefully, though Sherlock could still hear the smile on his lips.

"Alright," Sherlock croaked out.

He couldn't deny John this.

"Good," John smiled satisfied to himself, "Now, should we flip a coin… or do you have any clue… as to which idea… we should follow?"

"Save your breath," Sherlock was surprised at how calm his voice was. He wanted to return the sentiment. Say something meaningful to John. But he had already said his farewell speech once. Now was no time for an encore. Maybe he should apologise again. For The Fall. Just in ca-

No.

John might have said what he needed to in order to focus on the last task – _because this would be the last, it had to be_ – and there was no version of this where they would not solve it.

So Sherlock instead said; "Our reference was Jack the Ripper. St. Bart's is named after St. Bartholomew. Christians claim he was skinned alive and beheaded. Much like Jack the Ripper's victims. So I say we go with St. Bart's. Does this mean anything more to you, John?"

It took a moment for John to answer, but before any verbal response, Sherlock could hear John rummaging through what sounded like books, some hitting the floor as the doctor discarded them; "Actually yes. I investigated him… when starting my training. Wanted to know… who the hospital… was named after. Some believe… that his full name… was Nathanael Bartholomew… and that he is the Nathanael… mentioned in the Gospel of John. I always found… that it was a funny coincidence."

John was looking for a Bible. How ironic, if that should be their salvation. Sherlock couldn't help a chuckle escaping him. Maybe the air was getting thin of his side of the wall as well, or maybe the smile in John's voice despite their situation was rubbing off on him. Clearly euphoria. Not good; "Once again, I believe it is proven that the universe is not lazy enough for coincidences."

John laughed along with him, finally finding the small, thick book and looking up the Gospel that he long ago had mused over in a displacement activity during his studies; "Please be a key, please be a key, please be a key."

Though Sherlock did not believe in praying or divine powers, he inwardly repeated John's desperate words with an intense hope that most prayers would be jealous of.

But no sound of victory came.

Just a long sigh, hope escaping into thin air.

"What is the next clue?" Sherlock found himself asking, though even he couldn't hide the feeling of defeat from his voice.

"A note."


	8. 01:26

John's voice was just as heavy as Sherlock's, and for a long moment after, all Sherlock could hear was heavy breathing.

This could not be the end. Not like this. Not when he was so powerless to do anything and had been so helpless for the past hour. He could not lose his only friend without a fair chance of saving him.

But he had had a chance, hadn't he? But he had laughed it off, secretly loving the challenge. Well, almost secretly. John had seen through him multiple times. He had asked for him to find an answer, and yet Sherlock had dragged on his answers, exclaiming his childish joy when finding the answers, burning precious second. He wanted those seconds back, even if it was only ten. Just ten more seconds…

And now they were running out of time. 01:22, 01:21, 01:20-

It was torture!

Sherlock let out a pained growl as the only way to express his inner turmoil, and slammed his fist against the solid concrete, harder and harder but the pain solved absolutely nothing. The wall didn't give, the door didn't open, the clock didn't stop.

So he stopped, leaning on his reddening fists against the cool surface. He would solve this. He still had time, he just had to be quick. Turning his attention outward, he yelled; "What is the picture!?"

"Sherlock, don't-"

"JOHN!"

A small sigh; "Red shoes."

"Be more specific!" John had given up, it was clear in his voice, and it only made Sherlock want to yell at the idiot for not fighting with every remaining breath. Logically, he knew that the lack of oxygen was draining the doctor, but he couldn't accept that logic. Not now.

"I don't know… Sherlock… I can't…"

"John! Plea-…" Sherlock's voice hitched. _Deep breath_ , "Please, John. _Please_."

This time, the speaker fell silent. Not even heavy breathing. And then, the pleading actually paid off as John started serving him short clues; "Sneakers. Red. Three red stripes. Different material. Adidas. Red soles. Red laces. Looks new."

 _Useless_.

"Anything written on the picture? Anything in the background?" _Please, please, please_.

"No. Background just white."

Definitive. Sherlock tried to ransack his brain, but no references popped up. But it wasn't his brains fault. It was this… this… _sentiment_. It kept part of his focus constantly on the invisible speakers, tuned in on the breathing that was his only solid clue that the man on the other side was still alive, was still alright and that he still had a chance.

But all his brain supplied him with was... _10 seconds_.

"Remember what you promised."

 _8 seconds_.

"John, I-"

 _7 seconds_.

"I know. Just remember! Don't delete!"

 _5 seconds_.

"I'll remember…"

 _4 seconds_.

"Good. Good. It's good."

 _2 seconds_.

"No, it's not. John, it's not alright!"

 _Beep_.


	9. Time

_Beep_.

Quiet.

No sound over the speaker, not even the unnoticeable static any functioning speaker always emits. His mind was almost blank too. Only a single thought remained; "John?"

No answer.

Maybe he just needed a bit of time to answer. His breathing had been quite bad. But surely the oxygen would not just completely disappear in the moment the time ran out. There was still time. John was still alive, he just needed a minute to compose himself. John would answer. He had to. He- Oh, for God's sake; "JOHN!"

Still no answer.

A familiar, unwanted voice whispered in the back of his mind; " _Begging_ _and_ _pleading in one and the same day. What has become of you, brother mine?_ "

The cold contrast of his brother's voice broke something in Sherlock. He had once aspired to meet his brother's _standards_. But what did they matter? What did anything matter?

Suddenly it felt as if a black hole opened in his chest, making him crumble in on himself as it pulled on his very being. Pain flooded his veins and he fell against the wall in front of him. He tried to hit the wall again, but his strength was being sucked into the gaping hole in his middle.

Tears started streaming down his face, and he couldn't find it in himself to care. It was painful and yet a release for the pain that seemed to maintain a steady flow through him.

A cruel whisper, sounding hauntingly like John, reminded him that this was how John must have felt as Sherlock leaned over the edge of St. Bart's. And suddenly John's reaction when he had returned made sense, and his own stupidity shone like a beacon, only helping to illuminate the fatale failure he had made.

And then the door opened.

The sound and movement so unexpected that he started as the silence of the room was broken by the _swish_ of the electronic door.

Pain transformed to anger.

It came so easily, so naturally, that had he still been of sound mind, it would have scared him. But right now, he let it consume him. The tears stopped, his strength returned and his entire being focused on the gaping door opening. He waited for someone to step forward in the darkness beyond. Someone tangible to take out all of these emotions on.

He knew perfectly well how to execute and cover a murder. He knew how to subject a victim to maximum pain before allowing them to escape this miserable world. Anything he could do would never be enough to compensate for his loss. Not just his loss. Mary's loss. Even Harry's. Everyone they knew. Even the world that didn't really know what it had lost today. But anything he could do to avenge John Watson would be the closest to justice that the world would ever come to see.

"Sherlock?"

He stopped breathing.

He tried to will his heart to stop as well, because it was too loud.

He strained his ear to listen again, for the impossible whisper that had drifted from the black hallway.

Impatient as ever, he only lasted for two seconds before bolting to the door, careless of his own safety when doing so.

The hall was dark but for the light emanating from his room - and from a room a few meters to his left. And in the door opening sat a familiar figure, facing him. Despite the still shallow breathing, a smile spread across John's face when their eyes locked.

A small voice in his head stated; _So, I was right about which wall John was behind_.

_Irrelevant!_

His feet finally started moving and he crossed the small distance as quickly as possible and knelt next to the doctor. He didn't know what to do, moving to touch John but not really sure how to or where to touch him. There were no visible bruises or injuries to attend to.

Luckily, John seemed to read his mind and just grabbed one of Sherlock's flaring hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze before helping it down to the floor instead of flying around in the air between them, "Just give me a second to catch my breath. And then let's get the bloody hell out of here."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that tore across his face with the immense relieve and disbelieve that John was sitting here so casually. He sat back, letting his weight fall tiredly on his backside, ignoring the slight discomfort of dropping down on the hard, concrete floor.

Then his brain finally caught up. How could they actually sit here, right now? The question slipped from his lips before his mind had a chance to even consider analysing the situation – _Oh God, please don't let the black hole have absorbed his genius and left him utterly ordinary_ – ; "What happened?"

John smiled back, and Sherlock recognised the small signs of pride on the man's face. So John had cracked the riddle?

"I just got lucky, I guess. An idea struck me. Maybe the red sneakers were symbolising a modern version of red slippers. 'No place like home', you know? And what is home? 221B. So I tried 2212 as the combination, since B is the second letter in the alphabet. And here we are."

Sherlock was unnaturally happy to hear John speaking long, normal sentences again.

Except…

"What does red slippers have to do with Baker Street?"

John squinted a bit at the question; "It's… Red slippers. From Wizard of Oz. Dorothy clicks her heels and says 'There's no place like home', and gets send back home."

A heartbeat past between them.

"You might have suffered some kind of brain damage, 'course you are not making any sense, John. We do not know anyone called Dorothy and there is no such thing as wizards and I know of no location called 'Oz'," Sherlock tried to reason with his unfortunate doctor.

John blinked. Once. Twice. Then; "Oh, my God. Have you not seen The Wizard of Oz? Sherlock, that is a classic movie! You must have seen it!"

Sherlock looked puzzled; "Doesn't ring a bell."

"With the lion and the scarecrow and the tin man? And the witch and flying monkeys?" John started rambling.

"That is absurd! There's no such thing as flying monkeys, John," There couldn't possibly be a movie like that. No one could make up anything that stupid. He had to get John to a not-oxygen-deprived doctor.

But then John laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound that Sherlock had ever heard, so Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh along with him, the final tension draining from him.

"Oh God, you genius idiot," John smiled fondly when the laughter subsided, "Forget it, Sherlock. Just another inane pop cultural reference, as you called them."

Sherlock gave one last chuckle, before looking away into the dark hall, the seriousness of their situation creeping in on him again. What could have happened, what he felt had happened not two minutes ago; "Good job, John."

It wasn't what he wanted to say. It wasn't what he needed to say. But it was what he could say. The black hole had evaporated, and he slowly felt his mind coming back online, taking back control of his transport, including his vocal cords.

But John understood and answered in kind; "You too."

And that was enough.

"Who did this, Sherlock?" John looked intensely on the detective.

"I'm not sure. But these riddles were spun around our skills and lives. I know only of one criminal who has had such an interest in us," Sherlock didn't meet the doctor's eyes.

"Moriarty," John concluded, "But he-"

"Yes, he is dead," Sherlock quickly assured, "But I would not put it past him to arrange this little… surprise for us in case he lost. One last game."

John shook his head; "No, I guess not."

A not complete comfortable silence fell between them. Moriarty was not the highlight of their friendship, but neither was going to let the mad man ruin them, especially not from the grave.

"Let's get the hell out of here," John broke the silence and raised himself from the door opening, though still supporting himself against the wall.

Sherlock instinctively grabbed onto John's side, taking some of his weight and started moving them down the hallway.

"You sure this is the way out?"

Sherlock almost smiled. Almost, "Fairly certain, yes. If not, I'm sure we can escape what lies ahead as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there is such a thing as a Google-fic, this it is. Everything is googled, so that removes all responsibility for mistakes from me… right? No, I hope that I got most facts right and that the riddles/puzzles were entertaining and understandable (Otherwise please let me know :) ).
> 
> The picture for 8:49 was inspired by ACD's original short story 'The Problem of Thor Bridge', though slightly altered to modern times (Grace Dunbar is here a secretary instead of a governess). Always loved this story. I know that I ignore the forensic science of comparison of bullets from different guns, but let's just pretend two completely identical guns exists, right?
> 
> The goodbye speech from John to Sherlock was unintentionally inspired by Arthur's goodbye speech to Merlin in the TV series Merlin. Didn't realise the similarity until I reread it.
> 
> As mentioned in the preface, this was initially supposed to be a part of my multi-one-shots fic The Case File of Minor Tales. It is a small collection of one-shots inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes. This fic was inspired by the episode 'Same Time, Same Place', which made me want to make a story, where John and Sherlock could not be in the same location, and Sherlock would rely on John's input to solve a case. The idea for the escape room solution came from "Fear Itself", where they are caught in a house and have to get to a certain point to get out while facing their worst fears, in this case Sherlock losing John. So, these two episodes got mixed into this little fanfic.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading!


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